chimeric chronicles
@demianboras.bsky.social
Books, art, writing, daily deliriums — carcasses I dissect to keep my pulse awake. I gnaw on what feeds my vanity, spit the rest into the gutter. Each post — a pulse of revolt, a sneer thrown into the silence that calls itself meaning.
For twenty minutes I observed the pair—each enslaved by their own screen’s little god. Their nods were the ritual of the possessed, not the living. Love? She’s fled to the realm of phantoms, digitized, stripped of all flesh, another spook ruling over empty egos.
November 11, 2025 at 8:30 AM
For twenty minutes I observed the pair—each enslaved by their own screen’s little god. Their nods were the ritual of the possessed, not the living. Love? She’s fled to the realm of phantoms, digitized, stripped of all flesh, another spook ruling over empty egos.
Dating portals: we enter hungry for intimacy, yet exit emptier, having traded our patience for illusions. Each swipe a gamble, each match a mockery; connection is promised, but all we inherit is the slow, quiet erosion of hope and the taste of our own vanity.
November 10, 2025 at 3:44 PM
Dating portals: we enter hungry for intimacy, yet exit emptier, having traded our patience for illusions. Each swipe a gamble, each match a mockery; connection is promised, but all we inherit is the slow, quiet erosion of hope and the taste of our own vanity.
Now, in one of those sterile hours when the world exhales its boredom, I sit by the window, staring into the coffee that no longer warms me. A cloud drifts through it — a small, dissolving corpse of thought. The trees outside twist like hysterical actors in a play I refuse to applaud.
November 10, 2025 at 8:45 AM
Now, in one of those sterile hours when the world exhales its boredom, I sit by the window, staring into the coffee that no longer warms me. A cloud drifts through it — a small, dissolving corpse of thought. The trees outside twist like hysterical actors in a play I refuse to applaud.
The weekend — that holy illusion for the weary. Yet it feels like the same chain, merely polished. Fatigue mocks the calendar; it obeys no clock or deadline. It comes when the world demands too much and the I no longer wishes to serve.
November 8, 2025 at 8:37 AM
The weekend — that holy illusion for the weary. Yet it feels like the same chain, merely polished. Fatigue mocks the calendar; it obeys no clock or deadline. It comes when the world demands too much and the I no longer wishes to serve.
When I look at Caravaggio, I see the ego incarnate in light and shadow — not this herd of painters and writers who beg for approval. Their “art” is nothing but obedience disguised as expression. The crisis is not of talent, but of self — no creators, only servants.
November 8, 2025 at 8:19 AM
When I look at Caravaggio, I see the ego incarnate in light and shadow — not this herd of painters and writers who beg for approval. Their “art” is nothing but obedience disguised as expression. The crisis is not of talent, but of self — no creators, only servants.
Hiroshi Sugimoto OPTICKS
Sugimoto’s Opticks — colors bleeding like open veins of light. The purity of pain in prism form. Each hue screams without sound, a delirium of vision. Even silence rots under that sterile perfection. Beauty? A wound pretending to be eternal.
Sugimoto’s Opticks — colors bleeding like open veins of light. The purity of pain in prism form. Each hue screams without sound, a delirium of vision. Even silence rots under that sterile perfection. Beauty? A wound pretending to be eternal.
November 6, 2025 at 1:12 PM
Hiroshi Sugimoto OPTICKS
Sugimoto’s Opticks — colors bleeding like open veins of light. The purity of pain in prism form. Each hue screams without sound, a delirium of vision. Even silence rots under that sterile perfection. Beauty? A wound pretending to be eternal.
Sugimoto’s Opticks — colors bleeding like open veins of light. The purity of pain in prism form. Each hue screams without sound, a delirium of vision. Even silence rots under that sterile perfection. Beauty? A wound pretending to be eternal.
We should not seek beauty that flatters the eyes. The heart alone knows the wound that makes a face luminous. True beauty is the scar of what has burned without being consumed.
November 6, 2025 at 8:09 AM
We should not seek beauty that flatters the eyes. The heart alone knows the wound that makes a face luminous. True beauty is the scar of what has burned without being consumed.
At the next table—a plump sphere of resignation disguised as a woman. Her meal glistens with oil, the slow machinery of her undoing. Some souls cultivate decay with the same devotion others reserve for art.
November 4, 2025 at 1:52 PM
At the next table—a plump sphere of resignation disguised as a woman. Her meal glistens with oil, the slow machinery of her undoing. Some souls cultivate decay with the same devotion others reserve for art.
I'm out of coffee. A morning without it—an absurd parody of awakening. The body rises like a bad actor repeating its role, while the soul stays buried. Blood drags itself through the veins toward execution. Even the light derides me, parading its sanity across the walls. I exist—without belief.
November 4, 2025 at 7:42 AM
I'm out of coffee. A morning without it—an absurd parody of awakening. The body rises like a bad actor repeating its role, while the soul stays buried. Blood drags itself through the veins toward execution. Even the light derides me, parading its sanity across the walls. I exist—without belief.
The night doesn’t sleep — it decays. I lie awake like a corpse rehearsing resurrection, gnawing on the silence until it bleeds meaning. Every breath is an argument against existence; every second, a confession that even time is insomniac.
November 4, 2025 at 7:31 AM
The night doesn’t sleep — it decays. I lie awake like a corpse rehearsing resurrection, gnawing on the silence until it bleeds meaning. Every breath is an argument against existence; every second, a confession that even time is insomniac.
So much to finish. But November… It drags its gray days like a funeral procession. To me, the month is a canvas by Caspar David Friedrich, where every fog, every leaf, every dying light conspires to crown sadness with the dignity of its last melancholy.
November 3, 2025 at 8:11 AM
So much to finish. But November… It drags its gray days like a funeral procession. To me, the month is a canvas by Caspar David Friedrich, where every fog, every leaf, every dying light conspires to crown sadness with the dignity of its last melancholy.
Balthus paints as if time had stopped just before sin. His figures hover between innocence and provocation, silence and tension. Every gesture is a whisper of scandal, every shadow — a confession unspoken. He paints dreams that refuse to wake.
November 3, 2025 at 5:19 AM
Balthus paints as if time had stopped just before sin. His figures hover between innocence and provocation, silence and tension. Every gesture is a whisper of scandal, every shadow — a confession unspoken. He paints dreams that refuse to wake.
Magnificent! A single, decisive white line (the harmony of silence) carves a spiritual void through the chaos, balancing the dynamic colors and shapes.
Who shall silence all the airs and madrigals that whisper softness in chambers?
John Milton
"The White Line" by W. Kandinsky #Art
John Milton
"The White Line" by W. Kandinsky #Art
November 2, 2025 at 12:49 PM
Magnificent! A single, decisive white line (the harmony of silence) carves a spiritual void through the chaos, balancing the dynamic colors and shapes.
My dream still clings to me, like a feverish ghost painted by Bruegel and dictated by Kafka. It crawls through my memory — grotesque, divine, absurd — a theatre of disfigured saints and laughing corpses. My soul, that cracked canvas, still trembles under its touch.
November 2, 2025 at 9:07 AM
My dream still clings to me, like a feverish ghost painted by Bruegel and dictated by Kafka. It crawls through my memory — grotesque, divine, absurd — a theatre of disfigured saints and laughing corpses. My soul, that cracked canvas, still trembles under its touch.
I drink coffee with cardamom — bitter, fragrant, almost sacred. The air vibrates with oriental melodies, as if the East itself were writhing in my veins. All that’s missing is a belly dancer — some delirious apparition of flesh and rhythm — to complete this blasphemous morning ritual.
November 2, 2025 at 8:51 AM
I drink coffee with cardamom — bitter, fragrant, almost sacred. The air vibrates with oriental melodies, as if the East itself were writhing in my veins. All that’s missing is a belly dancer — some delirious apparition of flesh and rhythm — to complete this blasphemous morning ritual.
Solitude wraps around me like a rag soaked in mercy, the only respite from the endless parade of fools who bludgeon reason with their presence.
November 1, 2025 at 5:33 PM
Solitude wraps around me like a rag soaked in mercy, the only respite from the endless parade of fools who bludgeon reason with their presence.
Good mood — ridiculous, obscene! And yet here I am, grinning like a fool at the sky. Why? No tragedy, no revelation — just a bitter coffee, a cheap cigar, and the sun vomiting gold over the street. Enough, apparently, to deceive the abyss for a few hours.
November 1, 2025 at 5:06 PM
Good mood — ridiculous, obscene! And yet here I am, grinning like a fool at the sky. Why? No tragedy, no revelation — just a bitter coffee, a cheap cigar, and the sun vomiting gold over the street. Enough, apparently, to deceive the abyss for a few hours.
A quote from the current reading:
"Christian religion is a meta-narrative that reaches into every nook and cranny of life and anchors it in being. Time itself becomes freighted with narrative. In the Christian calendar, each day is meaningful."
Byung-Chul Han
The Crisis of Narration
"Christian religion is a meta-narrative that reaches into every nook and cranny of life and anchors it in being. Time itself becomes freighted with narrative. In the Christian calendar, each day is meaningful."
Byung-Chul Han
The Crisis of Narration
October 28, 2025 at 7:53 PM
A quote from the current reading:
"Christian religion is a meta-narrative that reaches into every nook and cranny of life and anchors it in being. Time itself becomes freighted with narrative. In the Christian calendar, each day is meaningful."
Byung-Chul Han
The Crisis of Narration
"Christian religion is a meta-narrative that reaches into every nook and cranny of life and anchors it in being. Time itself becomes freighted with narrative. In the Christian calendar, each day is meaningful."
Byung-Chul Han
The Crisis of Narration
That gloomy sky, that endless gray, that rain—it is the very putrefaction of the infinite mimicking, with a sickening precision, the unbearable sediment of the soul. A day of spiritual erosion, where the external world merely confirms the inanity within.
October 27, 2025 at 9:08 AM
That gloomy sky, that endless gray, that rain—it is the very putrefaction of the infinite mimicking, with a sickening precision, the unbearable sediment of the soul. A day of spiritual erosion, where the external world merely confirms the inanity within.
Lacan’s lamella — that absurd immortal scrap of desire — is nothing but the ghost of ownership that refuses to die. Stirner would laugh: even the drive wants to possess me. I tear it apart and eat it; my will digests what psychoanalysis dares to call eternal.
October 26, 2025 at 8:42 AM
Lacan’s lamella — that absurd immortal scrap of desire — is nothing but the ghost of ownership that refuses to die. Stirner would laugh: even the drive wants to possess me. I tear it apart and eat it; my will digests what psychoanalysis dares to call eternal.
Poetry—
a scream trapped in ink,
a wound dressed in words,
it claws at silence,
bares the rot beneath the skin,
and yet, in its fevered pulse,
I taste a fleeting life
where the world has long grown numb.
a scream trapped in ink,
a wound dressed in words,
it claws at silence,
bares the rot beneath the skin,
and yet, in its fevered pulse,
I taste a fleeting life
where the world has long grown numb.
October 24, 2025 at 8:29 AM
Poetry—
a scream trapped in ink,
a wound dressed in words,
it claws at silence,
bares the rot beneath the skin,
and yet, in its fevered pulse,
I taste a fleeting life
where the world has long grown numb.
a scream trapped in ink,
a wound dressed in words,
it claws at silence,
bares the rot beneath the skin,
and yet, in its fevered pulse,
I taste a fleeting life
where the world has long grown numb.
Kaia comes with me to the cinema. Franz K. is on the screen. She doesn’t know Kafka and doesn’t pretend to. She only comes to see him because I do. I watch her watching me, and I think it’s strange, almost tender, how someone can care so little for what you care about,
October 23, 2025 at 9:59 AM
Kaia comes with me to the cinema. Franz K. is on the screen. She doesn’t know Kafka and doesn’t pretend to. She only comes to see him because I do. I watch her watching me, and I think it’s strange, almost tender, how someone can care so little for what you care about,
Writing an essay about that author — what a punishment disguised as learning. His every page a yawn, his thoughts evaporating before they touch the mind. And the professor, with priestly calm, says, “Everyone must make a sacrifice.”
October 22, 2025 at 9:45 AM
Writing an essay about that author — what a punishment disguised as learning. His every page a yawn, his thoughts evaporating before they touch the mind. And the professor, with priestly calm, says, “Everyone must make a sacrifice.”
Boredom, that silent tyrant, sharpens the mind more than fevered activity. In its void, the soul churns, unearthing truths obscured by motion. Productivity is a mask; in the stillness of ennui, the only work is the grim excavation of oneself.
October 21, 2025 at 8:15 PM
Boredom, that silent tyrant, sharpens the mind more than fevered activity. In its void, the soul churns, unearthing truths obscured by motion. Productivity is a mask; in the stillness of ennui, the only work is the grim excavation of oneself.
Van Gogh - his brush screams where reason falls silent. Colors clash like the last convulsions of a mind unhinged, beauty wrenched from torment. The light is obscene, the night unbearable; every stroke a testament to suffering masquerading as art, every hue a revolt against the peace we crave.
October 21, 2025 at 8:08 PM
Van Gogh - his brush screams where reason falls silent. Colors clash like the last convulsions of a mind unhinged, beauty wrenched from torment. The light is obscene, the night unbearable; every stroke a testament to suffering masquerading as art, every hue a revolt against the peace we crave.